Part Time Lover
by E. S. Young
Summary: But she was hot and she was available and she dug him, so it was good. He didn't see any reason why he couldn't have other girls on the side and still keep her. But it wasn't love. No way was it love. Max/OFC. One-shot.


**Part-Time Lover**

By

_E. S. Young_

Note: This is AU from the Max/Jude series that I have going on. It is also my first attempt at Max/OC, so bear with me, here. I love the slash, but this OC has been rattling around in my brain for quite some time now, demanding that I do something with her. I've been hesitant to post anything with her in it not just because my belief that Max and Jude are too adorable together has been holding me back, but also because I'm really just not sure if you guys will react well to this girl. In the end, I figured to hell with it, and decided to post an _experimental _story. You see, there is actually one multi-chaptered fic that goes along with my OC that is really the _backstory _to this fic. However, like I said, before I get too involved and go writing another long story, I wanted to see if this girl would be taken well. That said, please don't hesitate to tell me what you think and, of course, enjoy.

۞۞۞

"_You're a part-time lover and a full-time friend._

_The monkey on your back is the latest trend._

_I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else_

_But you._"

—the Moldy Peaches, "Anyone Else But You"

۞۞۞

"So…what d'you have planned for this lovely evening?"

"Well," he began, "I was kinda hopin' to hang around here for a while, maybe grab a few drinks before heading home, and then finishing it off by having hot, crazy sex with you, baby."

"Gotta love the fact that you don't beat around the bush when it comes to this kinda stuff."

"I'm a guy who's always believed that honesty and openness are what's key in a relationship."

"Max…" she sighed wearily, "this isn't a relationship, remember?"

He shrugged.

"Eh…it's a figure of speech, honey pie."

She arched her eyebrows—clearly skeptical—and continued her balancing act at the edge of the dock, arms outspread, placing one foot in front of the other while he casually strolled beside her.

She was right, of course: This wasn't a relationship—hell _no _was it a fucking relationship. They weren't dating. He didn't buy her cutesy little gifts like stuffed animals and flowers (though he had picked a daisy for her hair that one time; it had looked adorable; then she had taken it and put it in _his _hair, smirking and saying it looked better on him). Nor did she call him every twenty minutes simply to hear his voice—but this wasn't exactly necessary since she had moved into Sadie's apartment with him and so they already saw a good portion of each other anyway. But they weren't dating.

Okay, so, yeah, they went on _dates_ but it wasn't the same thing. Besides, he tended to think of those dates as being more like he was just hanging out (hanging out with a smokin' hot girl whom he happened to bang on the side). And he supposed that he cared about her—shit, he knew he did—she was like his sister—wait. Shit, no, _not _like his sister because he certainly wasn't screwing around with Lucy, nor did he ever plan to. This girl was more like…Jude. Yeah, that worked since he cared a lot about the guy and because Jude was certainly bang-able (he had always known that, if he swung that way, he would have been on that fucking Limey in a heartbeat). So, in many ways, she was like a female version of his best friend. But, on top of that, girl-Jude had great tits—something that real Jude distinctly lacked—and, in the end, he was a sucker for a nice rack.

But (and this was the part where he turned into a total sap and thanked God that she couldn't read minds—at least, as far as he knew) she was more than that. A Georgia girl, she had a light and lazy Southern drawl and an attitude to match it. Along with this, she had a warped sense of humor that meshed well with his own and a quirky personality that wanted very much for Jude, Lucy, and the rest of his roommates to like her but could care less what most others thought. She was incredibly unorganized but not obnoxiously untidy, was a huge bitch but so fucking hilarious when pissed off that it made up for it, and was a closet egotist in that, while she never said it out loud, she gave off an air of confidence that said that she knew exactly how hot she really was. She said she was a woman but she was another man—having grown up with two older brothers, she understood guys and was totally cool with the stack of Playboys he kept under his bed (probably because she was sexually ambiguous and liked to sneak peeks at them herself), the almost-daily exercise routine he shared with his hand, and the fact that there were other girls in his life besides her. Although, granted, they never lasted more than a night, whereas she had been sharing his bed for…wow…a couple of months, now? And not once had she made a complaint about his sleeping habits—not his tossing and turning, his need to sleep with the light on, or his nightmares.

He was getting better, so much better, but there were still nights when he would wake up screaming, shaking, not knowing where he was or what was real, only that they were after him and he didn't want to kill anybody but if he didn't get his hands on a gun he would _die_…

She would hold him until he came out of it, rubbing his back or stroking his hair, rocking him back and forth while softly singing a lullaby about golden slumbers and assuring him that that he wasn't There anymore, he was Here. With her. And it was real. He was safe. Nothing could hurt him, now. His eyes would flicker open, grow misty, and look up at her and he would shiver in her embrace, clinging tightly, again and again swearing that he had never wanted to kill anybody, that he had just been acting, not thinking because he hadn't known what to do, and that if only he could take it all back, he would have. She would kiss his forehead and tell him that it was okay; she understood. He believed her.

Maybe that was it—why she wasn't bothered by his night terrors: She understood. She had been there—an army nurse. She had nightmares of her own to deal with, horrifying images of hospitals that were covered in blood, or patients that she always failed to save, no matter how hard she tried. And not just men, but young girls no older than herself, pregnant women, little kids—all of them wounded, burned, bleeding, screaming. She made no sound whenever she awoke, but the feel of her jerking out of his arms as she shot up in bed, trapped in another memory, never failed to wake him. Hating the short, panicked breaths and glassy, faraway eyes that came with these moments, he would turn her toward him, gently cupping her face, and tell her to snap out of it, to look at him, whispering over and over again, "_It's all right, it's all right_," because nothing was going to get her Here. And, slowly, her breathing would return to normal and she would crumble against his chest, whispering a meek "Sorry," and say nothing more.

And…_damnit_. He wished that she didn't feel the need to apologize. She was fucked up, so was he—it was understandable. Granted, the shit that they had both witnessed was slightly different—she hadn't killed people, merely failed to help them. But arguing over whose case of PTSD was more severe was a debate that was too morbid to ever get into. In any case, he was a lover, not a fighter. Definitely not a fighter.

"Although," he heard her say, the Southern lilt bringing him out of his bleak musings, "I guess, since I've got noting better to do tonight…"

He grinned. Tease.

"Uh, excuse me? Nothing _better _to do? Ah do believe that ya'll have done a _severe _damage to mah feelin's, Miss Lizzy," he replied, mocking the Southern tones as badly as he possibly could. She merely smiled, well accustomed to his hideous bastardization of her accent by now.

"Well…since Sadie doesn't have a show, she'll be with JoJo. Prudence is spending the night with Rita, and Jude and Lucy will probably be bumpin'… Although I could always go to a bar and get really wasted. Some guy is bound to come along and, seeing my inebriated state, think he can get lucky, so…you might say that I actually _do _have plans for this evening. And, I mean, who knows? I might even hook up with a chick."

"Hey, you know the rules," he reminded her, shaking a finger. "If that's the case, then Max gets to watch."

"Yes." She rolled her eyes. "But only if _I _get to watch if you ever bring a guy home."

"Fag hag!"

"You know it!" she laughed, stumbling slightly on the slick planks. He watched her long, slender feet as they regained their balance, a mischievous smirk pulling at corners of his mouth. She was so close to the edge, so close…

She'd be royally pissed if he did it.

Ah, but th look on her face would be worth it. Besides, she was cute when she was angry. That, and the fact that she was wearing a white tank top and he was pretty sure that she didn't have a bra on underneath it (they were too confining, she had said, like straight jackets for breasts). His grin widened. No way in hell was he missing this opportunity.

"Lizzy," he stated calmly.

"Mmm?"

Without another word, he reached out and gave her a shove toward the water.

Dark eyes grew wide and long limbs flailed as she let out a yelp of surprise, teetering precariously on the edge of the dock. Feeling quite pleased with himself, he began to laugh as he watched her plight.

"Ass!" she exclaimed, narrowing her eyes. And just as she began to slip, her hand shot out and seized the collar of his T-shirt.

Blue eyes grew wide.

"Shit."

And they both went tumbling into the water.

۞۞۞

Sputtering, gasping for breath, he surfaced, looking around wildly for the tricky little bitch who was now the reason why he was soaking wet.

"Lizzy! You crazy-ass, fuckin'…"

She came up behind him, placing her little hands on his shoulders, giggling all the while.

"God _damn _it!" he swore, twisting around to glare at her. Sandy locks plastered to her neck and shoulders, shining like beaten brass in the late-afternoon sun, she calmly bobbed up and down, a wide grin spread across her heart-shaped face.

"Was it absolutely necessary to pull me in with you?" he demanded to know.

"Well…" she laughed quietly, "…_yeah._"

He narrowed his eyes but smiled nonetheless, matching his bobbing with hers. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Again and again.

He sighed in mock-exasperation.

"Ruining all of my wonderful plans to see you wet—you're lucky you're cute, or else you wouldn't get away with this."

She arched a brow.

"You'll still get to see me wet."

"Yeah, but now _I'm _soaked, too—which, lemme tell ya, was not part of my carefully devised plan of 'drench-Lizzy-in-freezing-ass-cold-water-so-I-can-see-her-nipples.' What if I catch a cold, hm? I could catch pneumonia or some other life-threatening disease, y'know? Then where would we be?"

"I'm a _nurse_," she reminded him. "Former-Captain Elizabeth Darling of the US Army, remember? Besides…" Oh, he loved the way she smirked like that as she pressed her forehead against his. "…this way, I get to see _you _wet. Fair's fair, yadda, yadda. So, I'd say it's worth the risk."

"Cock tease," he muttered.

She sighed.

"We've established this: I'm not a cock-tease."

"Oh, that's right. You're a _whore_," he replied.

"Nooo…whore's get paid. I am simply a slut who mooches off of her wealthy family's inheritance."

"What a coincidence: I don't take my sluts any other way!"

"Really?" she asked, feigning astonishment. "And here I was beginning to think that you didn't have a type."

"Surprise you more and more every day, don't I?"

"Mmm…" she said vaguely. "Personally, I don't have a type."

"Well, that's what makes you such a great slut."

"Exactly!"

They snickered, amused by each other's own absurdity. It was funny—despite the taunts, the splashing, the giggling, the vulgarities…it was a peaceful moment. He felt at ease—somewhat normal for once—the lapping waves ebbing away any tension that may have remained—not that there had really been any to begin with. Not that he ever felt any kind of tension when around her period. Unless it was the good kind—the happy, excited, all-over-tingly kind.

Like, right now, when she leaned in and kissed him, pressing her lips sweetly to his, taking the moment and holding it for as long as she could. How they stayed afloat, he didn't know. He didn't think anymore, only acted, closing his eyes and returning the favor.

Then, they let go and sank beneath the waves.

۞۞۞

His hands roamed freely, skimming over delicate arms, sliding down around slender thighs, and back up again to become tangled in her hair, which had become a silky, billowy cloud underwater, swirling about them, unbound.

One hand gently cupping his cheek, she curled her slender body around him, her lips never leaving his.

He could feel her long legs kicking out around them, sometimes bumping against his own.

He didn't mind. Not really.

۞۞۞

At last, light-headed, their lungs searing, burning for air, they rose to the surface and broke it, shattering the quiet around them with deep gasps and weary, breathless laughter. He grinned, watching as she swam forward a little, wrapping her arms around his neck as he tried to tread water. She bumped her nose against his.

"I think I lost my sandals."

He blinked.

"Well, that's a bitch."

She scrunched her nose, splashing him lightly.

"Unsympathetic bastard."

"See, when you say it like that, it's like you've just realized it for the first time."

"Ass!" she declared once more, splashing him again, harder this time.

"Oh, _that's _the way you wanna play, is it?"

"Oooh, baby, you know how much I like it rough!" she began but abruptly broke off with an astonished "Max!" as he dunked her under water.

She shot up again, coughing, and smacked him hard on the shoulder.

"Damnit, Max, we've been over this: It's your turn to be the sub tonight!"

"Aww, but I'm _always _the sub!" he protested, whining deliberately.

And she did it again—that Goddamn forehead-to-forehead smirk thing that he loved so much.

"That's because everyone knows that you're the woman—I mean, c'mon. You'd look better in my skirt than I do—and you gotta admit that I've got bigger balls than most guys you know."

He nodded. "True, true. They are pretty impressive."

She bit her lip, smiling. "_Aaand_…because the handcuffs are too big for me."

He huffed, feigning frustration.

"Yeah, but those metal ones keep cutting into my wrists. When are you gonna get the fuzzy ones like you promised?"

"Honey, if you wanna play like Bettie Page, you're gonna have to use metal handcuffs!"

A pout formed on his lips, which earned him a sigh.

"Besides… we can't have any hardcore S&M fun tonight, anyway. My leather outfit is still at the cleaners."

They stopped there, and looked at each other for several seconds before bursting into laughter. Which was abruptly (and rather rudely, in his humble opinion) cut off by an angry shout:

"Hey, you punks! Get out of there!"

They both looked over to the shore to see a very disgruntled police officer (who appeared to be as wide as he was tall) glaring out at them, threateningly fingering the nightstick that hung from his belt.

"Oh, c'mon, man!" he complained.

"I mean it!" the cop shot back. "I'm sick and tired of hauling you Goddamn delinquents in for skinny dipping!"

Lizzy snorted derisively. "We're hardly skinny dipping! Though I'm not opposed to taking my top of if you—"

"_Out!_" the officer bellowed, his sweaty face turning red. "_I'm _not opposed to whipping out my nightstick and clubbing your smart mouth in, little missy!"

"Gee, Officer Krupke," he said sarcastically, pushing the wet hair out of his eyes, "How're ya gonna do that with it shoved so far up your ass?"

"That's it!" And there was a tremendous amount of clumsy splashing as the policeman charged into the water after them.

Letting out a taunting peal of laughter, he grabbed Lizzy's hand and pulled her toward the shore, past the cop, who was slipping on algae-coated rocks and pieces of seaweed as they quickly waded past him and uttering a stream of epithets so colorful he was almost impressed. Almost.

With a cheerful "_Adios_, flatfoot!" he and Lizzy ran, hand in hand, down the pebbly beach, laughing their asses off all the while.

۞۞۞

"Shit!" Lizzy exclaimed, looking behind them. "That son of a bitch isn't gonna quit!"

"Split up," he instructed hurriedly, still grinning like crazy. She winked before veering toward the left as he tore off in the opposite direction.

Apparently finding the shapely Southern belle a much more appealing target (he was only slightly offended), the cop chose to hunt down Lizzy.

He stole a glance over his shoulder just in time to see the two go past Jude's sketch of Lucy and disappear around the corner of an abandoned building. Lizzy was doing a strange, exuberant skipping-run, gleefully taunting the copper.

"_Have you seen the little piggies_

_Crawling in the dirt?_

_And for all the little piggies _

_Life is getting worse!_

_Always having dirt to play around in!_"

Ducking through the empty doorway of a different building, he pressed his back against the cold cement wall, catching his breath. Panting slightly, he bent over, pressing his hands to his knees, listening.

"_Have you seen the bigger piggies_

_In their starched white shirts?_

_You will find the bigger piggies_

_Stirring up the dirt!_

_Always have clean shirts to play around in!_"

The singing was getting louder. She was headed his way. He grinned, an idea beginning to take shape.

"_In their sties with all their backing,_

_They don't care what goes on around!_"

He heard her cackle uproariously, provoking the policeman without a care as she continued to sing at the top of her lungs. Crazy bitch.

"_In their eyes there's something lacking—_

_What they need's a damn good whacking!_"

She was almost there. The cop was nowhere in sight, though that didn't mean that they had lost him for good. He crept toward the doorframe, cautiously sneaking a peek outside. There. Barefoot and doing her bizarre run-skip down the street, she was but a few feet away from his hiding place. Perfect.

"_Everywhere there's lots of piggies_

_Living piggy lives!_

_You can see them out to dinner_

_With their piggy wives,_

_Clutching fork and knives to eat their ba—_hey!"

His arm shot out, quickly seizing her around the waist. And before she even knew what was happening, he had tugged her into the darkness of his safe haven.

"Shh!" He raised a single finger to his lips before wrapping his arms around her from behind, pressing his chest against her back and resting his chin on her shoulder. She bit her lower lip, grinning, her dark eyes shining wildly in the small amount of light that shown in through the door. He smiled back, his heart beating, frantic and happy, feeling more alive than he had in months, his entire being alert and tingling at the danger of getting caught and the thrill of getting away with it.

In the distance, they heard the heavy footfalls of the portly officer growing louder with each passing second. He felt her chest rise as she held her breath, and he did the same, holding her tighter to him.

Wait, wait, wait…

The sound of slapping footsteps drew closer, accompanied by labored, wheezing breaths.

Closer, closer…just a few feet away…scant inches from the door…right outside…then… He breathed a sigh of relief. Gone.

He heard her exhale, too, as she relaxed, leaning into him. Smirking against the smooth flesh of her bare shoulder, he kissed her. She laughed quietly, turning her face to kiss his cheek in return. Quietly, deftly, he put her little hand in his and spun her away from him, watching as the still-soaked yellow skirt billowed gracefully around her, sending droplets of water flying everywhere. It was like a dance—he slowly pulled her back, twirling her around so that she faced him now, resting his hand on her hips, slowly swaying back and forth. An almost-waltz.

She sighed contentedly, laying her head against his shoulder, lulled by the sweet, internal rhythm that they shared. He rested his cheek on top of her damp head, breathing in her scent—sweet tobacco from the little thin cigars that she smoked, light and fruity perfume, and the one that seemed to come naturally: honey.

Drenched to the bone from their impromptu dip in the lake, he shivered slightly in the chilly April air.

She looked up at him and stated the obvious:

"You're all wet, babydoll."

It was her way of saying, 'I' worried you're going to get sick. Could we please head home, now?' while still maintaining her air of indifference.

He gave her a playful little shove, still keeping one hand wrapped around her waist.

"So're you, honey pie."

"Then what say you an' me blow this joint, huh?" she suggested. "Not that I really mind the cold."

"Although it _would _be kind of embarrassing for a nurse to get sick," he concluded wryly.

She blinked slowly, meaningfully, her eyes wide.

"I still don't have any shoes."

۞۞۞

Seven minutes later, they were strolling hand-in-hand through the streets of New York City—her wearing his navy blue converse sneakers, him completely barefoot and cool with that, both of them still soaking wet. People stopped and stared at their sopping countenances and unusual (or, in his case, nonexistent) footwear, but it didn't bother them.

"Y'know, if I stub my toe or cut my foot on a broken beer bottle or something, I'm blaming you."

"Dually noted," she said. "Better you than me. Other people are easy, but I'm shit at patching myself up."

"Yeah," he agreed, "you do a pretty piss-poor job when it comes to taking care of yourself."

"Gotta tell ya, babe, this whole brutally honest persona that you've got going on? It is just so damn appealing. I mean, you simply ooze charm."

"Oh, all of a sudden I _ooze?_"

"Yeah," she replied, looking up at him and tilting her head questioningly. "When's the last time you took a shower, anyway?"

He shrugged.

"'Bout ten minutes ago in the lake."

She sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Y'know, just because we live with a bunch of smelly-ass hippie burnouts doesn't give you consensus to abstain from bathing."

"Ooh, big words from the little girl," he mocked. "And for your information, because you obviously haven't noticed, I _am _a smelly-ass hippie burnout."

"That still doesn't mean that you have to go around reeking like one."

"Damn, woman!" he exclaimed with false exaggeration. "When are you gonna learn that I am an uncontrollable force? Maxwell must go free, darling. There's no way around it."

"Free my ass," she muttered sarcastically.

"It would be my pleasure," he replied, slyly reaching around to gently pull at the ties that held her skirt in place. She swatted his behind in retaliation. His surprise was short-lived, but it was there all the same. Truthfully, he doubted that he would ever get used to her behaving this way. Not that he hadn't been with girls that were just as confident and at ease with all things sexual as Lizzy was, but she was just so…cute. A small, lithe, cute little thing with long, wavy tresses the color of honey, pouting lips, soft curves, and big brown eyes that, thankfully, war hadn't taken the light out of. She was sweet-looking—the kind of girl that no one would ever think capable of cussing like a sailor, smoking pot and drinking booze, or coming on to boys. Then again, she had once said the same thing of him, describing how, when first she saw him, she had thought of him as being so young and innocent—an all-American boy. Then he had opened his mouth and she had quickly learned that she had been very, very wrong. Laughing quietly at the memory, he slid his arm around her hips, lightly hugging her to his side.

"Mm, what's so funny?" she asked softly.

"Nothing. You. Me. Stuff."

"Oh, stuff," she echoed, nodding solemnly. "It _can_ be rather hilarious at times."

۞۞۞

Night had almost fallen by the time they had reached the apartment, the sky painted a dusky shade of orange and splashed with soft pink and deep violet, speckled here and there with early-evening stars.

Everyone else was out—getting drunk, getting dinner, getting laid. The place was quiet and all theirs.

They took turns helping to remove the other's soggy clothing—her peeling off his red T-shirt, him untying her buttercup-yellow skirt. Her white top, his baggy bellbottom jeans. Green and white-checkered boxers. Little pink panties.

They stood before one another, naked, shivering, silent.

It was very strange for them—for two such chatty people—but it was also unusually…_good_. Content. Peaceful.

Raising his arms, he let his fingertips rest lightly on her hips, feeling a rash of goosebumps forming on pearly flesh. Wordlessly, he pulled her closer.

Palms lying flat and warm on his chest, she looked up at him. Simply looked. Said nothing. Lost in thought, this bird had flown.

For a minute, he feared that she wasn't Here with him anymore, but over There, battling a memory that would never let her win. But her face was not frozen with pain, her eyes held no terror, merely thought.

"You okay?" he asked—just to make sure.

"I feel fine," she assured him. Her voice shook with cold—but not fear—and her lips and eyes smiled.

۞۞۞

It felt like hours had passed, and they probably had. He wouldn't have been surprised. Everything was a massive blur—arms, legs, hands, mouths, heat, passion, love.

Shit. Well, maybe not love.

Love-_making_. That was it. But certainly not love, because he didn't _do_ love. It wasn't his style, wasn't him. He liked his freedom entirely too much to settle down and commit himself to one, single person. Even if it was Lizzy who was so sweet and pretty and fun and understanding and just…comfortable.

She was curled lightly on her side, her back pressed against his chest—a horizontal replica of their earlier pose in the abandoned building, when they had outrun the long arm of the law. He had one arm draped over her, twining their fingers together while her head was pillowed on his other arm, the pressure warm and comforting. She wasn't asleep. He could just barely see her eyes shining in the dim light of the lamp that he still refused to turn off.

"Hey, Lizzy?" he began quietly.

"Mmm?"

"Lemme ask you something." He bit his lip, thinking. "Does it—I dunno…You know you're not the only girl in my life, right?"

"Yeah."

"Doesn't that bug you? I mean, most chicks would be pissed."

She shrugged.

"I'm not most chicks."

"Yeah, but still," he pressed, suddenly very, very curious. "Doesn't it bother you that I'm banging like, four or five other broads on the side?"

"Not if it doesn't bother you that I'm banging other guys on the side."

"Yeah, but y'see, you're _not _doing that," he pointed out. "You're only sleeping with me."

"…and that bothers you?"

"Well…yeah," he admitted. "I mean, you shouldn't feel obligated to stick with me or anything—"

"Who says I feel obligated?" she challenged, turning over to face him and propping herself up on her elbows. "Maybe I'm only interested in you."

"Not that that isn't perfectly understandable, but I'm just saying that it's okay to fuck other guys. I'm not gonna flip out or anything. Unless you gimme an STD or something, but, y'know..."

Sighing heavily, she said, "You don't get it: I know that—there's nothing stopping me from sleeping with other people besides you. Except," she added, "for the simple fact that I _only want to sleep with you_. It's not that I feel like I'd be cheating on you or anything—I'm just not interested in anyone else."

His brow furrowed in confusion.

"Oh…"

"_Oh,_" she repeated firmly.

"Well," he stated. "Shit."

"Listen," she said, shifting so that she now faced him fully, their noses mere inches apart, "I flirt with a lot of guys, I even make out with a lot of guys, but I can confidently say that, as strange as it may sound, I've only ever had sex with three people."

His eyebrows shot up.

"Really?"

"What can I say? I am one finicky bitch. I don't just fuck everything that moves, unlike some people," she said with a rather pointed look before giving him a quick kiss in apology. "Although, that's one of the things I love about you."

"Love," he repeated faintly, almost to himself. He shook his head. "Shit, you don't love me."

"I don't know." Her voice was soft, her eyes lowered.

He sighed again but reached out to her, pulling her close so that her head rested on his chest.

"Me either." He closed his eyes, running his hands through her hair. "But…this, what we have…it's good."

"Yeah." She smiled. "It is. It's good."

He kissed her forehead.

"Right where we are."

۞۞۞

Don't hate me. Like I said, this was just an experiment—my testing the waters, if you will, to see if I should pursue Max/OFC. If you didn't care for it, it will hopefully be some consolation to know that I plan on having another Max/Jude fic posted in about a week. And it's a long one, too. :-) That said, I'd really appreciate some feedback on this one, so please, don't hesitate to let me know how you really feel about it.

**Notes**

"Honey Pie" – one of my favorite Beatles' songs, and so, of course, I had to reference it.

…he would have been on that fucking Limey in a heartbeat – well, just because the story is het. doesn't mean that I can't throw in just a _little _slash. ;-) Besides, I've always thought that straight!Max, as much as he loves the ladies, would totally check out guys too, but never actually _do _anything with them (unless they're offering, are from across the pond, and their name begins with a J).

She said she was a woman but she was another man – throwback to the song "Get Back," which is actually kind of funny since Lizzy's name was originally going to be "Loretta."

He was getting better… - wow, I cannot believe how many Beatles references I've managed to include in this story. Usually I can manage, like, two at the most, but this one is just full of them.

…a lullaby about golden slumbers… - if this one-shot goes over well and I feel that I have enough incentive to write a lengthier story detailing Max and Lizzy's relationship, one idea that I had for it involved her singing "Golden Slumbers" to him while tending to him in the hospital.

"_It's all right, it's all right_," – from "Here Comes the Sun." Honestly, I think I'm going to make a tally of how many references are in this fic. The number is getting ridiculously vast for me.

Miss Lizzy – that makes six. And it's always surprised me how no one has yet to name an OFC "Lizzy." It seems like "Michelle" is the most popular choice—not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm merely making an observation. Nor am I complaining. I like having the lone Lizzy in the growing collection of Max/OFC fics. :)

"Fag hag!" – yeah, Lizzy is a big fan of boy-love. And, personally, though she would be upset at first, I think that she would totally ship Max/Jude as long as she got to watch and maybe join in on the action a few times.

Dark eyes grew wide…/Blue eyes grew wide. – hooray for deliberate repetition! Samuel Beckett would be proud. Well, probably not. That man was too damn picky, though his plays were certainly intriguing, to say the least.

"Hey, you punks! Get out of there!" – it feels like this is the stereotypical thing for a cop to say, doesn't it?

"Gee, Officer Krupke" – oh yeah, he totally did just quote _West Side Story_. And "Gee, Officer Krupke" kinda sounds like a song that Max would sing, doesn't it?

"Piggies" – originally, I hadn't intended to include a song in this fic, but then this one just sort of came to me—and, once again, it's one of my favorite Beatles' tunes.

…he put her little hand in his… - throwback to the song "Dizzy Miss Lizzy." I also think that this is number eight (days a week) on the Beatles Reference Count.

People stopped and stared…it didn't bother them. – okay, this is actually a very subtle reference to the song "The Street Where You Live" from the musical _My Fair Lady_. It was one of those unconscious things that I hadn't even realized I'd included until I was proofreading the story.

"…little girl" – reference number nine (number nine, number nine…). While the words "little girl" are used in several Beatles' song, I specifically had the song "Run for Your Life" in mind when I decided to make this one, mainly because it makes me think of Lizzy's personality (though I cannot, however, imagine Max singing it to her).

Maxwell must go free, darling. – I am so ridiculously proud of myself for fitting this into the story. And I'm sure you all are well aware of what song it comes from. :-)

It was very strange... – number eleven, "Penny Lane."

…this bird had flown. – twelve, "Norwegian Wood." Okay, I think the references are unstoppable at this point.

"I feel fine," – thirteen, and the song title is rather obvious.

…he didn't _do_ love. – oh God, I just quoted _Silence Becomes You_. Well…I guess that's okay, because it's one of Joe Anderson's movies (even though it was a rather frustrating, not to mention confusing thing to watch and I found myself wanting to punch Alicia Silverstone in the face multiple times because of the sheer immaturity of her character. Joe was lovely in it, though).

…running his hands through her hair. – fourteen, "Here, There, and Everywere."

"Me either." – yeah, he loves her. He's just being Max. He's a nitwit—the kind of person who would be head-over-heels in love with someone and it would be completely obvious to everyone (including the person he was in love with) except for him.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Across the Universe _or any of it's characters. I only own Lizzy, even though I do not claim ownership over the song that her name comes from, nor any other Beatles songs that are mentioned and/or sung. Everything (except Lizzy, of course) belongs to either Julie Taymore or the Beatles. Save for Max, who is too much of a free spirit to belong to anyone, and Jude who is still his bitch even though this is an AU het fic. ;-)


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